Happy Fucksgiving

Don't get me wrong, I am so thankful this Thanksgiving. I'm thankful for my loving, amazing, hilarious husband, my beautiful miracle daughter, four sweet, fluffy dogs and a supportive network of family and friends. For them I am eternally grateful. I feel so lucky to have them on my side, ever loving, ever ready to help me, and so reliable.

So wtf Bex? Your life is awesome, wtf do you have to upset you? Well, my inner critic, I still want my son.

As I sit here on my first post-loss Thanksgiving, I think to myself all the things in my life which are amazing. I feel such joy and appreciation for these things. It is odd to experiencing so much grief simultaneously. I laugh watching my toddler wreaking havoc upon our house, her laughter and sparkling eyes. But I cannot stop thinking of my son's little body, so cold, in my arms.

As a woman, as a wife, as a mother, how does one go through her grief and still be spirited and enthusiastic to her child and to be lustful and attentive as a wife? It is not easy. I can tell you what every mother of an angel baby will say is true: you never stop thinking about your lost child. I wake up thinking of him and go to sleep with him in my thoughts. I dream of him. I long for him. I remember how he felt in my arms, how soft his skin was and how light he was in mass. I remember kissing him and touching his face over and over to try and imprint it all in my mind because soon he would be taken from me.

Every month I go without another pregnancy, I feel worse. I feel so empty. All the while I am celebrating my amazing daughter. She is so smart, so strong and shows so many traits of her father and I. We laugh every day over something she says or does. It's the best feeling in the world. I could not feel so "ok" with things if not for her. I love looking at photos of her from the last three years because it reminds of me all those magical feelings we had after she was born.

You can't know how it feels unless you've been there. Some days it hurts so much that I want to take a knife to my skin. Not to end my life, but to cause a little pain, just enough to hurt but not to bleed. The pain is that much. He was there and three days later he was gone. A pregnancy rife with personal conflict, hurt emotions and medical issues. Three days. And to think, "if they had taken him early, he'd still be there, " just fucks it up all the more. The fact is, even if they had taken him a week before this happened, when I noticed his movement lessening, he'd still be dead. The damage was done, his destiny foretold weeks or months before. I used to think everything happens for a reason but for the life of me I cannot understand how his death was meant to be. Why? On a day of thanksgiving I find myself struggling not to crumple into a heap of tears.